Starring nightly at the Paramount Palace is Star Trek! Weekend matinees of Star Traks are available at the Decker Dine-in! Direct to Meneks' "MM Productions" DVD is BorgSpace! So You Don't Want To Be A Borg? The beat of a bass drum. An abrupt spike of trumpet alarm. A clash of cymbals. With ominous intensity, a theme song familiar to billions, if not trillions, of beings swelled into audibility. Simultaneously, lighting gradually intensified, bringing into view swirls of a cold fog which hid more than it revealed. In the depths of the gray shroud a silhouette slowly materialized, becoming gaining definition the closer the camera crept. "Welcome to 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg? - Super Ultra-Deluxe Infinite Edition'," said a non-nonsense female voice beloved by an audience of faithful watchers. In some households, the still-hidden host had been a fixture for three (or more) generations as individuals grew from infancy to adulthood. "As you all know, this show, at a century and still counting, is among the longest running, non-sporting programs in the history of the civilized galaxy. You have been here through all the trials and tribulations, the two near-cancellations, the swarm of jujuliana bugs, the Xenig Incident. You have also watched joyfully as winning contestants have had their life's dreams become true. For these reasons, loyal viewers, this Super Ultra-Deluxe Infinite Edition is for you!" The fog suddenly cleared, revealing a set that had changed little over the years. However, it was not the colors, not the sponsorship ads, not the podiums nor screens nor numerous implements of the game show which drew attention. Instead, sitting in a chair on a dais at the center of the stage, like a spider in a web, was the woman, the host, who was a virtual mother for the countless numbers of viewers who had grown up with her dominating presence on the tri-V. The woman was everything the media company think-tanks and AI's would assert to /not/ be good draws. She was old; she was not sexy; she was short and, quite frankly, dumpy. Her hair was styled in a severe bun. She wore glasses. Her clothing was 'matronly', an euphemism for utter lack of style. She had a sarcastic mannerism, pointed and biting. That latter trait, combined with a voice that evoked the memory of that one relative whom was both beloved and to be utterly feared, reduced even the largest being or most successful CEO to the level of cowering preschooler. The audience completely adored the host, especially since they weren't the recipient of her tongue lashings. Zyriana was her name, a female version of the Zyrian entertainment hologram; and the only one in existence (due to copyrighting). "For the past century," continued Zyriana, gaze steady as she looked into the camera, presenting the convincing illusion she was talking to each viewer personally, "this show has gone on a journey. Many ordinary people - people with extraordinary dreams - have had a challenge set before them in the form of Green, Orange, even Plaid Borg. While there have been many failures, there has always been one whom has surmounted all odds to claim their ultimate desire. This evening I will bring you not only a variation upon theme, but perhaps something brand-new all together. "This evening I bring you...Borg. The Collective." * * * * * "Welcome! What's your name?" was the first thing the man heard as he stumbled through the door, propelled forward by a firm push to the small of his back. As he fumbled with the dark sack covering his head, he could sense something else, a whispering on the edge of ken, heard without use of ears; and then the not-quite- perceived words faded. Just as the man paused pawing at his head to try to listen, the hood was roughly yanked. "I've only known you half an hour, Thyrone, but it is already more than plainly obvious that you are deficient in the cerebral excellence department, unlike myself. Maybe one should remove swaddling /before/ trying to strike up a conversation?" "Maybe one should stop consulting the thesaurus one has in one's bloated head when normal words would do," muttered the welcomer. "Are we all here, do you think?" asked a third voice with trepidation. Voice #2 sighed in exasperation, "Haven't you ever seen the show, Lokin? Four contestants is the normal number; and there has been no indication that the standard will not be applied here." The man took advantage of the pause in the not-so-helpful tugging at his sack to remove it himself. As he blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the bright strip lights of the small, featureless room, three humanoid forms resolved into focus. Direct in front, half turned to the side, was a tall male. The first impression from the view of ears, facial structure, and complexion was Vulcan. However, as the obvious originator of the Voice #2, more than a little of the man's family history must have come from elsewhere, for no pureblood Vulcan was so condescendingly arrogant. "Push off, Brent," said Voice #1. Action followed words as a short human with a touch of Ferrengi about the skin and forehead shouldered the named aside. She peered up at the newcomer, appraising calculation obvious in her eyes. "Don't mind Brent: he thinks that because he had the 'honor' of being a member of Ultraviolet for a couple of years means that his 'cerebral excellence' makes him better than anyone else here." "That is because I /am/ the best." Brent was ignored. "My name is Thyrone. I was with Green paying off some, um, ill-advised debts, but that is behind me now. I've literally paid back my dues and was released; and now I'm out to make my /own/ fortune. What's your story, bud?" The man shivered, but not because of cold. If anything, the room was overly warm and humid, which in itself brought back bad half-memories. "Do you...hear anything? Inside, I mean?" Thyrone gave the man a puzzled look. "Never mind," said the man. For those who had once worn designations, even if temporary and voluntary, personal names became important. For those who had served involuntary servitudes, names (and the ability to use the singular pronoun) were precious. "I am Brad." The last occupant of the room shuffled over. Her species was indeterminate, perhaps one of the many minor humanoid races which had no ambition to spread beyond their immediate solar system. Her skin was extremely pale, which could have been an affliction of the species or the fact that she did not expose herself to natural sunlight often. There was also the suggestion that she should be covered in a thick coat of hair, perhaps even sport a mane, although at the nonce she was completely hairless. "We, er, I am Lokin. I was with Sepia. You are an ex-Borg, aren't you? I've read about your type, but never actually seen one." Thyrone and Brent immediately took a step away from Brad. Brad looked down at the floor, well aware of his stigma. "Yes. The SecFed clinic did not do a very good job at de-assimilating me. If I win the show, my request is to be completely de-assimilated and then be moved to a place where I can start my life over." Conviction was in Brad's voice. "I understand," responded Lokin quietly. Her words became stilted, as if she were reading off cue cards, "I had a short-term rental with Sepia. When our, er, my body was released, I...didn't follow the post-de-assimilative directions." Brent snorted. "What the bookworm is saying is that she lacked the intelligence to follow simple directions like 'do not inject a commercial SecFed nanite suite for at least six months.' It wasn't even commercial, was it, Lokin? Maybe something black- market?" The named turned away, refusing to answer. "None of the Colors give de- assimilation refunds, of course, not if the de-assimilatee is at fault. Whatever Lokin put in her system, I hypothesize it is the reason why she looks and talks like she does." Lokin continued to be silent, staring at a wall of the small room and refusing to answer. "Geesh, you are such a bully, fat-head." Thyrone leaned forward, but did not actually take a step forward. "Brad, while I am quite confident that I'll win and be showered with my request of latinum and deeds to industrial planets, I do have a confession: as long as /Brent/ does not win, I'll be happy. I can even live with Lokin coming out on top. Personally, I /hypothesize/-" the word was used as a goad "-that Ultraviolet kicked the smarmy know-it-all out of the Color because of his attitude." The reply was yet another condescending snort. More pointed barbs may have flown at that point, except that a door, the same one Brad had been pushed through, slid aside. Through the opening came an aged woman. While she was alone, her projected presence was more than sufficient to fill the room, subsuming even the overlarge ego of Brent. "Have we gotten to know each other?" asked Zyriana. The delivery was made in a rhetorical fashion and without genuine interest. Without waiting for an answer, the holographic host of 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?' briskly continued, "Good. You all know me, I am sure. If you don't, then I have no idea how you managed to be selected as a contestant finalist. A couple of ground-rules, ladies and gentlemen. You can ask questions later. "First, I think this is a stupid premise for an episode. Perhaps it isn't as idiotic as the Polka-Dot fiasco, but it is close. Working with the ex-assimilated? On a /Collective Borg/ vessel? It is a recipe for disaster, not that management would listen to me, one who was doing this gig when their /grandparents/ were in diapers." At the mention of the Collective, Brad startled. He raised a hand to ask a question, but was ignored. "Yes, this is a Collective Borg ship you are on. Surprise and all that garbage. This is the secret location to which you were transported. Please do not ask what had to occur to achieve permission to film onboard without having my entire production staff assimilated because I will not tell you: it is not important for you to know. "Other than that, the show will follow the standard format. You will all be introduced, and then there will be a series of contests. Those who do not achieve success will be eliminated. It is quite obvious from the title of the program the nature of the elimination, although it may be a bit more graphic than usual because the 'Super Ultra- Deluxe Infinite Edition' nonsense. I do not know what sort of gimmick that is supposed to be, neither, so don't ask. Marketing, I so despise them at times. The last contestant standing will be awarded a million strips of latinum and their dream. Any questions?" The editorialized presentation was imparted in a manner which said that it had been delivered many, many times. Brad tentatively raised his hand again. "No," spat Zyriana, anticipating the query before it could be voiced, "you cannot be sent home. You signed the commitment contract, remember? It is legally binding. The only way out of here is to win. Other than that, one, a staff member will show you to the temporary bathrooms; two, no, nothing can be done about the heat or humidity; and, three, snacks will be provided in the filming interludes. Please remember that this is not a live show: each game is choreographed and shot to its conclusion, then edits made prior to its tri-V debut to fit it into an hour time-slot. However, I suspect that the winner should be on a ship and out of here in two or so days." Without waiting for any additional questions, Zyriana pivoted to face the door. Over her shoulder she added, "Make-up staff and wardrobe will arrive in a couple of minutes to prepare you all. Lokin, dear, I'm going to request some sort of instant tanning agent for you because, frankly, your skin is too Borgish for the audience, not to mention the glare that I'll have to endure under the stage lighting. And Brent, that tie you wore will have to go." As the door closed, a frowning Brent fingered the piece of offending apparel amid Thyrone's snickers. * * * * * "Welcome Thyrone, contestant number one and a past member of the Green Borg! Her hobbies include gambling, travel, and rolling naked in piles of hard currency. Thyrone's dream is to have sufficient latinum to fill a dozen full-sized swimming pools and to own the deeds to three industrial planets or moons of her choice." As Zyriana grandiosely bestowed the first introduction, green tinted strobe lights began to accent the fog swirling across the set. Theme music swelled, accompanied by applause. A short human with a trace of Ferrengi in her ancestry strode onto the stage, hand held high in welcome. Her functional, show-supplied jumpsuit was green, darkened almost to black under the lighting conditions. As the clapping increased in volume, Thyrone thrust the other hand into the air and began to blow enthusiastic kisses, the very epitome of the grown-up class clown. "Thank-you, Thyrone," thinly smiled Zyriana in the sternly disapproving, you- are-wasting-our-time expression the viewing audience adored. Thyrone winked at the camera, bowed one final time, tossed an impertinent kiss to the holographic host, and finally trotted to the first podium. Zyriana flared her nostrils, but like the veteran host she was, the show must go on. "Contestant number two, Brent, comes to us as a release from the Ultraviolet Borg! He enjoys complicated mind puzzles, building Mandelbrot-inspired sculptures, and just generally feeling superior to all other forms of life. Brent's dream is to establish and head a top-quality research institute, funding guaranteed for any and all projects of his choice during the span of his life!" Brent's entrance was much less dramatic than Thyrone's, the tall Vulcan hybrid's head held high in a sign of dignified restraint. His head was tilted back so far that it seemed as if he were viewing the world through his nostrils, not his eyes; and he wore a minute frown of disproval, as if all the show theatrics were unnecessary impediments to him acquiring what was already his. Brent's jumpsuit was an unflattering shade of purple that shimmered with a nauseatingly oily quality under the strobes. With the smallest of nods at Zyriana, Brent stalked towards the second contestant podium in the line of four. The applause for Brent was not nearly as enthusiastic as it had been for Thyrone. "Hailing from the hallowed, and quiet, libraries of Sepia, our next ex-Color is Lokin! Her interests include reading, literary research, and reading about literary research. Lokin's dream is to work as a librarian for the Galactic Literary Institute, after undergoing re-deBorgification and cosmetic enhancement, that is!" Clapping picked up as Lokin shuffled onto the stage, fog churning with each step. Oddly, while it may be expected that the applause would be greater than for that of the smarmy Brent, it quickly rose to an intensity higher than even the clownish Thyrone. Obviously Lokin, with her reddish-brown jumpsuit and chemically tanned skin, was a crowd favorite. The reason was unknown, for her display was less than animated as she looked up from staring at her fog-obscured feet only once, and only then to avoid walking through Zyriana by accident. "Any eon now, Lokin," commented Zyriana with typical sarcasm. After the ex- Sepia had taken her assigned place, the hologram gestured towards the contestant entrance a final time. "Our last contender today is Brad...and he is not ex-Color, but ex- Borg! Recently de-assimilated, Brad has yet to rediscover hobbies, although his current likes include eating, sleeping, and not hearing voices in his head. Brad's dream is to have the remainder of the Borg nanites and implanted hardware in his body removed, followed by retirement to a small farm outside a pastoral community that is far from any commercial center and of no interest to any Borg, Collective or Color!" A human male walked confidently onto the stage at his introduction, then slowed to a halt as he was confronted by a sight out of the camera's field of view. Brad's face noticeably blanched, sudden paleness emphasized both his the black jumpsuit and the strobe lights. Eyes swept right to left, ending upon a something which caused him to step backwards. Then, with a clear self-assertion of resolve, Brad squared his shoulders, swallowed heavily, and forced a stiff smile upon his lips. The remaining open podium was taken. Zyriana swept her pointed gaze across the four contestants arrayed before her, before, hands on hips, turning to face a camera. Eyes stared into the lens; and for the individual viewer, it seemed as if her words were directed at that one and single person alone. Music shifted to a sub-theme heavy with ominous drums and strings. "Four contestants are invited to 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?', but only one will survive. What trials will the eventual winner need to overcome; and what scars will be borne even after his or her dream is acquired? Return after this word from our sponsor to find out!" * * * * * The four contestants had been shepherded to a long card table. From a distance the table resembled an expensive piece of heavy wood furniture, but up close the illusion was shattered. Cameras, remote saucer-drones and hand-held varieties wielded by staff, were present, capturing the images which would be later edited into a final, tri-V suitable product. However, it was not the sometimes intrusive cameras which had the contestants' attention, but the objects on the table, as well as the silent presences which stood nearby. "Oh, this is the syringe contest!" squealed Thyrone, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. "I love that one! Classic!" Brent snorted. "A game of chance. How boring." Even as the Vulcan hybrid expressed his disdain, he was carefully eyeing the four hyposprays arranged in a precise line upon the table, obviously searching for something to distinguish one from its identical neighbor. "You have a selection of more cerebral, more challenging contests available...why not use one of those?" Zyriana picked up a hypospray, then set it back down. The hologram turned her wickedly sarcastic (and trademarked) half-smile upon the questioner. "Because, dear Brent, this is, as Thyrone said, a classic game. It gets high ratings. And I kind of enjoy it too, especially as it flummoxes logical gits like you." Any additional comments went unheard as a high-pitched yelp came from Brad. Four sets of eyes turned in his direction, just in time to see a partially armored hand removed from the ex-Borg's shoulder. "Do you think you could maybe avoid giving my contestants post-traumatic stress breakdowns, Captain Borg?" acidly asked Zyriana to a blue-eyed drone who peered past the head of a trembling Brad. "While that little scene may be just what the producers want for this edition, the fact that it happened during game preliminaries means it will be difficult to splice in for the initial program run. It might make a good blooper highlight, though." "'Captain' will be appropriate, or this unit's designation of '4 of 8'," said the blue- eyed drone. Lokin, who was still smothering a snicker at Brad's reaction, abruptly quieted and stood straight as the Borg's cold gaze swept over her. Attention returned to the holographic host. "You waste time. We are ready." Zyriana was unphased by the Borg's pointed stare, returning one of her own. Of course, little bothered any of the Zyrian entertainment hologram series. "/We/ will take as long as /we/ need to acquire what /we/ need for /our/ program, Mr. Captain Borg. You are very much aware of the agreement." Brad was standing perfectly still, as if by becoming a piece of furniture he might ward the attention of his worse nightmare. By his posture, he was also obviously hearing something, or the whisper of something, a not uncommon symptom by those ex-Borg de- assimilated in SecFed clinics: SecFed physicians could never quite remove all traces of Borgification, and left-over hardware deep in the brain inevitably resonated to the fractal subspace frequencies of nearby Borg. The Colors were much more thorough in their de- assimilation process, and neither Thyrone nor Brent should have heard any whispers, yet by their puzzled expressions, they appeared to be receiving something too. Lokin was a category unto herself, her personal predicament due to ill-advised actions; and if among the self-re-Borgification symptoms the ex-Sepia librarian experienced included hearing the local sub-collective, it was not apparent. Although the blatant provocation by Zyriana did not change the non-expression on Captain's face, Brad winced slightly. "You waste time. We are ready," repeated the drone. "Fine, fine," sighed Zyriana. "Let's get this show on the road. What goodies have you prepared for the hyposprays?" "You are letting him...them do the hyposprays?" asked Brad, a note of hysteria just coloring his voice, as Captain moved to the table. Zyriana rolled her eyes. "The host Color has always done so, and neither myself nor management saw any reason to deny that responsibility to the Borg." "This will be fun," espoused Thyrone as she clapped her hands together. Brent, whom had unconsciously edged close to his bubbly rival, shook his head in scorn. Meanwhile, Lokin had returned to staring downward in the direction of her feet, silence her armor. On the table materialized three white plastic containers; and the same transporter sequence deposited a drone beside Captain. The new drone, alike to all others from the viewpoint of inexperienced observation, hunched slightly in on himself at first, then straightened, likely due either to a silent command else the nudge by Captain's elbow. Using a pair of pinchers on his prosthetic arm, Captain picked up the first container, setting the contents to sloshing gently. The whole hand then hoisted a hypospray. "This is a saline solution," he said as the business end of the hypospray was set against the container and triggered, filling the small medical instrument. "So he claims," said Brad in an accusatory tone. The ex-Borg abruptly shut-up and paled as Captain's single blue-eye swiveled in his direction. Lokin's hand went to Brad's shoulder, the same one the drone had violated earlier. "It's okay. I...we...I am nervous too." At the touch, Brad jumped, eyes darting to look at the ex-Sepia in undisguised alarm. "You are all such emotional and intellectual children," moaned Brent theatrically. Perhaps his earlier scrutiny of the hyposprays had provided him with an edge by which he would pass the contest? Or was his ego just not allowing him to display his true anxiety? Probably the latter. Zyriana clapped her hands, "Enough! Let's continue, shall we?" Meanwhile, Captain had substituted the second hypospray and container combination for the first. "This is G'floo! extract," he said as the syringe was filled. Thyrone gasped, "Oh! What color?" Captain cocked his head at the unexpected question, obviously listening to something unheard by contestants, stage staff, or host. "Yellow," he finally answered, appending it with "mostly." "Delicious!" responded the part-Ferrengi. The third container was brandished, "Alodrian vodka, 190 proof." There was no container associated with the final hypospray that Captain picked up from the table. The unnamed drone standing next to Captain extended his arm. "Blood inclusive a dense concentration of assimilatory nanites as provided by the primary assimilation hierarchy node of this sub-collective." The final loaded hypospray was returned to the table; and when the containers vanished in a transporter beam, the 'assimilation hierarchy node' remained, joined by two additional drones. Four hyposprays, one loaded with a very deadly substance (in this case, the G'floo! extract did not count), sat innocently on the table. Zyriana nodded. "Very good. Management will love it. Let's move on, shall we? Bring forth the Mixer!" The final sentence was uttered with dramatic intent, although no appropriately ominous music complemented it. That would be added later. Still, for those contestants who watched the show on a regular basis, imagination more than amply supplied the usual accompaniment. "Forgot about this part," muttered Brent as he watched his well-laid plans, if any, rendered moot. Thyrone snickered. A camera drone flew onto the stage, clutching a prop well-known to the tri-V audience: the Mixer. Part centrifuge, part agitator from a washing machine, its sole purpose was to carefully tumble the four hyposprays such that contestants could not tell one from the other. This was all done behind a clear Plexiglas barrier, of course. The camera drone set the Mixer down on the table, then quickly retreated to the side of the stage to resume its normal duties. With a nod from Zyriana, Captain quickly inserted the hyposprays into the front of the Mixer, then shut the door. In the meantime, his three Borg comrades had arrayed themselves into a row at the back of the set, just in front of the contestant podiums. Captain pivoted on heel, retreating to join the line on the end. "Let the mixing commence," said Zyriana as she touched a stud on the side of the Mixer. The device began to smoothly rotate; and, inside, the hyposprays bounced off each other and the padded sides of the cylinder. Predictably, several of the contestants intensively stared at the Mixer, eyes frantically darting back and forth as they tried to follow the trajectory of the dreaded nanite syringe. Although Brad's stare was intense, it could not quite match that of Brent. Neither Thyrone nor Lokin mimicked their male companions' interest, the former mugging for a camera which had drifted close and the latter returned to staring at the ground. The Mixer spun to a halt. The door automatically swung open. "First victim, please," purred Zyriana in the manner which had won the hologram numerous tri-V awards. Brent took a step forward, but was literally elbowed aside by Thyrone. "Ladies first," she said without apology as the Vulcan doubled over, clutching his stomach. As Thyrone had noted earlier, the contest was a classic, each contestant expected to select their own hypospray, the contents of which would be voluntarily injected. "G'floo! high, here I come!" With her claim made, she paused, looking to the holographic host for direction: this part of the game varied on occasion. Zyriana pointed, "Please select a drone and stand before it. If you picked the right hypospray, nothing will happen. If you picked the wrong one, well, your new friend will escort you away before you make a scene." Thyrone winked at the host. "The only scene I expect to make will be at the end, when I win the prize." Clutching her hypospray, she skipped over to the line of looming Borg. At first she seemed to want to choose Captain, but at the last moment veered to the left to stand before the 'assimilation hierarchy nexus.' "Next," urged Zyriana. "Lokin, perhaps?" As Brent remained doubled over and Brad seemed loath to budge, Lokin looked up from her scrutiny of the ground to find Zyriana gesturing for her to approach the Mixer. The librarian shuffled into motion, stopping in front of the Mixer to stare at the contents inside. With a last glance at the hologram, who now had arms crossed and toe set to tapping, Lokin selected a hypospray. She then panned the line of free Borg, gaze briefly resting on Captain. However, like Thyrone before, that particular drone was not the one the contestant finally chose. "I'm next," gasped Brent before Brad could move. Painfully straightening himself, the Vulcan hybrid strode to the Mixer. Hand reached forward to hover over first one of the two remaining hyposprays, then the other. Brent's hesitancy was palatable. "Hurry up, brain-boy!" cat-called Thyrone. "I wanna get a taste of my G'floo!! And then I want to see you assimilated!" Glaring at his nemesis, Brent abruptly grabbed a hypospray, then stalked towards the Borg line. His two remaining choices were the Borg on either end of the line, one of which was Captain and whom also just happened to be located next to Thyrone. Brent pointedly took the drone as far from the part-Ferrengi as possible. Which left Brad with the final hypospray, and Captain. "Is there perhaps an immunity challenge?" asked Brad of Zyriana with false hope. "Or can I embarrass myself sufficiently such that I can skip this contest?" "You are thinking of another reality game show, ducks," smirked Zyriana. "Take your 'spray and get in line. Now. Comply." Jumping at the dreaded 'comply' word, Brad gathered up the last hypospray then hesitantly approached Captain. Although the drone remained statue-still except for ocular implant and single whole eye, there remained a menace that appeared to be especially strong for the ex-Borg. Visibly shaking and flinching at the each movement of cameras or stage staff, Brad took his place. Zyriana strode to her dais and mounted it, taking her place as queen, as absolute dictator, reigning over her small kingdom. Arms spread wide as several cameras swooped in to record the famous words familiar to countless viewers. "Contestants...assimilate yourselves!" * * * * * "Contestants...assimilate yourselves!" cried Zyrian grandiosely. Multicolored lights flashed, illuminating the fog, as dramatic music rose to a crescendo. Then there was absolute silence, absolute darkness, spotlights narrowing the audience point of view to four locations. The artfully darkened background could not quite hide the Borg presence, targeting lasers or blinking lights providing suggestion of the fate to befall one of the four contestants. First to set hypospray to arm was not Thyrone, not Brad, not Brent, but bookish Lokin. Eyes squinting against the glare of the light, she turned over her left arm and summarily injected herself with the unknown contents. As if to not be outdone, Thyrone hefted her hypospray. An unseen audience was beginning to chant "Inject! Inject! Inject!", each syllable emphasized by a bass drum beat. With a flourish, the part-Ferrengi bared her neck, then, with a cry of "G'floo! me now!", thrust the injector against it. Situated next to the drama queen, Brad was much less demonstrative in his actions. He was whispering something to himself, a something that resolved to "Get out of my mind...get out of my mind" as a camera view zoomed in upon his face. Behind his head was perhaps the merest suggestion of upturned lips, except that everyone knew that Borg did not smile, could not be amused. Closing his eyes, Brad set the hypospray against the opposite arm and triggered it. The last contestant to act was Brent. The self-proclaimed intellectual held his hypospray with obvious distaste, an expression of disgust twisting his Vulcanish features. "This is a stupid game," he proclaimed to the world at large in the same petulant tone a spoiled child on the obviously-losing end of a game might use before knocking over the board. "Inject! Inject! Inject!" Queen of her domain, Zyriana merely smiled, the softest of lighting revealing her form, her features. "I'd do as they demand," she said, hand indicating the unseen chanters. "And if I refuse?" challenged Brent. Zyriana laughed, a wicked chortle which transformed her into the quintessential evil step-mother the tri-V audience loved to dread. Just as Brent was to lodge another verbal protest, the dark presence behind his back moved, grabbing at the loosely held hypospray and ripping it from his grasp. Brent began to struggle as an arm encircled his chest, the prosthetic which substituted for a lost hand clamping onto his head and pushing it sideways, exposing the neck. As the chanting rose in volume, whole hand rose into view, clenched into a fist, but then was withdrawn and substituted for the appropriated hypospray. The contents were injected. "Use that logic that you are proud of, Brent! With the 'sprays, you have a three in four chance to pass the game without sprouting implants. Otherwise it is 100% certain you will find yourself reacquiring a designation," called Zyriana from her position of prominence. All music halted, all lights were extinguished. Except for a single, steady drum beat, quiet reigned. Then a drum roll began, starting from near inaudibility but quickly building. Set lights returned with full intensity. "That's all?" asked Brad to the universe at large, confusion on his face. He was feeling his face, looking at his arms, searching for a paling of his skin or perhaps eruption of implants, none of which was occurring. He then startled, and took a step forward, whirling to face his Borg provocateur. "Don't you dare touch me! I felt that!" Two slots over, Lokin hiccupped. Then hiccupped again. "Vodka," she proclaimed, the word interrupted by yet a third hiccup. "We, no, I sense alcohol in our, er, my system. Vodka is not" *hiccup* "good for my" *hiccup* "species. Compensating." The screen dissolved, returning in split picture format focused upon Thyrone and Brent. Both had their eyes closed; and both were breathing heavily. Of the two, it was Brent who slit open his eyes first. "Whoa. Where'd that, um, platypus...targ...flying hippo thing come from? And why is it blue and kind of flashing on and off like that? Hey! There's another one! This isn't funny...I don't remember this as being part of this game!" Brent's eyes suddenly opened wide, and with a scream he ran out of the immediate field of view of the camera, arms waving wildly. The view reset itself, centering only on Thyrone, with Zyriana on a picture-in- picture inset. The part-Ferrengi opened her eyes and said, "I feel...funny, and not in a G'floo! way." All joviality was gone from the clown's voice. "Sorry, Thyrone," answered Zyriana brusquely without any true sense of apology, "but no G'floo! for you. I hear the original Borg nanites are a tad bit harsher on the system than the Colored varieties, not that I could ever have the opportunity to compare. Looks like you will not be winning your dream. So very not sorry." The sense of ominous anticipation was somewhat ruined by Brent running through the picture, gibbering about the fiery wraths with laser beams shooting from their nostril chasing after him. "Take the loser away," ordered Zyriana dismissively. "Finish what has already been set in motion." For the viewing audience, the picture once more dissolved to the entire set. Although the eye was drawn to the antics of the formerly smarmy Brent, most attention riveted on Thyrone. Around her was an increasingly large gap as both Brad and Lokin (still hiccupping) drew away from their former contestant comrade, leaving her to her fate. The 'assimilation hierarchy node' was holding Thyrone's shoulders with both of his hands, head swiveled sideways to regard Captain. Captain gave the slightest of nods. The unseen crowd was now chanting "Assimilate! Assimilate! Assimilate!" The 'assimilation hierarchy node' roughly, and expertly, grasped his shorter victim in the stereotypical Borg assimilation posture. Without ado, neck was wrenched sideways and free hand plunged in. The view point suddenly zoomed in to Extreme Close-Up, the action of the Borg drone additionally rendered into slow motion in order to drag out every gruesome morsel of the act of assimilation. Needless to say, the sequence subsequently acquired the highest rating of the entire show, winning accolades for the contributing editors. As assimilation tubules were withdrawn, the picture faded to black, then quickly returned to focus upon Zyriana alone. "And that concludes this first exciting segment of 'So You Don't Want To Be a Borg?' We'll return for more delicious, G'floo!-flavored fun after a short commercial break, so don't go away!" * * * * * "The staff physician assures me that eighteen hours is more than sufficient time for you all to recover from the last contest; and even if you are still hiccupping or seeing things that aren't possible in this universe, it doesn't really matter because the show's engagement on this cube is time limited," informed Zyriana to her three remaining contestants with typical lack of anything resembling social grace. It wasn't that the hologram couldn't be polite when necessary, it was just that such wasn't keeping with the persona developed over the last century. Following the conclusion of the hypospray game, Brad, Brent, and Lokin had been escorted to a too small room all three had recognized as a typical Borg (or Color) cube storage closet. It had been neither a pleasant nor relaxing interlude. Although Brent recalled little, courtesy of both G'floo! and the drug countering agent, rocking in a fetal ball featured prominently in that which he did remember, along with creatures impossible outside the venue of a horror movie special effects workshop. Lokin, on the other hand, had alternated between hiccupping and a feverish not-sleep where upon she stood against one wall, staring at something only she could see. Finally, having injected into himself benign saline solution, Brad had tried to ignore the troubles of his temporary comrades by eating, sleeping, and watching entertainment vids on a portable tri-V base. Unfortunately, his actions had been interrupted at odd intervals by edge-of- comprehension whispering perceivable not by the ear, but the mind. The stage had undergone only minor rearrangement since the previous game. Although the table was gone, the podiums remained, albeit reduced to three from the prior four. Zyriana's dais was present, of course, but then again, it was a constant throughout the show. Also still in attendance was the Borg 'audience', a silent crowd of drones located where a normal audience might be expected, just beyond set boundaries. The "So You Don't Want To Be a Borg?" producers had long since learned to not rely upon their Color host sub-collectives to provide appropriate applause, chanting, and other elements, so such was added later during post-production. These Collective units were no exception to the rule; and while the stage and camera staff had long grown used to the ambience created by staring drones, such tended to lend a delicious sense of nervousness to unprepared contestants. Zyriana, in her heart of digital hearts, although she would never admit it, was just a tad bit worried that this particular sub-collective might decide that the goad which secured their cooperation was insufficient after all. These Collective Borg tweaked her worry algorithms as Colors, even violent Red and crazy Polka-Dot, never had. Damn the bigwigs in their comfortable offices, never really comprehending what those on location had to go through. If this episode was actually pulled off with no (permanent) assimilations of her staff, she would offer her services - for free! - to *shudder* a public tri-V corporation fund-raising telethon. Eyes squinted against the only moderate lighting, Brent peered at the stage. "It looks like the 'Questions' game. Why don't you just flip a coin to determine if the eliminated one is Lokin or Brad? That would be faster, you know, because it certainly won't be me." However the G'floo! may have scarred the biological systems or fried brain cells, the Vulcan hybrid's ego remained untouched. Zyriana smiled thinly. "But it wouldn't be as much fun, Brent-dearie. Besides, I know the questions that will be asked...I wouldn't be so cocky, if I were you." Brent snorted. "The challenge will be against a librarian bookworm and an ex- Borg who has spent the last who-knows how many years of his life cocooned from the outside universe. Pa-leeeeese." Eyes rolled. "Hey!" protested Lokin and Brad in unison. Brad took the initiative to continue, "I was a Borg for eight years, yes, but I /do/ remember my pre-assimilated life; and I've been out of the SecFed de-assimilation clinic for almost eleven months now." "Who is the current Jhad-ball champion, Ultimate League?" countered Brent. Before Brad could display his ignorance, Lokin promptly answered, "Bloody Boarhounds of Batelus IV." Three sets of eyes stared at her in astonished silence. "What?" the ex-Sepia protested. "We are...I mean /I am/ a fan of Jhad-ball. Always have been." "Children, children," sighed Zyriana, "there is a game to play here? Remember? Dreams and all that? I'd like to continue before my increasingly favorite buddy by the charming name of Captain decides to inform me, again, that I am wasting time." As if on cue, Captain and two other drones materialized from a transporter beam. Brad, the closest to the point of arrival, hastily scrambled away, putting Brent and Lokin between himself and the Borg. "You are wasting time," said Captain. Zyriana raised one eyebrow and asked rhetorically, "What did I say?" The thin smile became thinner. "Brent, with expected egotistically fueled acumen, is correct: 'Questions' will be the next game. If you will all take your places, it would be nice to begin." The trio turned obediently and headed towards the podiums, each draped in a color matching that of their jumpsuits. As they did so, the three Borg followed. Brad flinched as Captain took up position less than two meters to the back and one side. The drone froze, gaze locked to a point about an armspan before his face, motionless except for an occasional slow breath. "Is this necessary?" asked Brad. "And does it have to be /him/?" Zyriana strode up to her dais, allowing the question to hang in the air before answering. "You all know the cost of failure: I think Thyrone was an exemplary example in that regard even if she was rather useless in all other matters that didn't involve a whoopee cushion or spending latinum. A little reminder adds a spice to life and a stimulus to succeed!" She didn't answer the second part of Brad's question, nor the first part for that matter. The hologram clapped her hands together, "A little reminder on the rules, gentlemen and lady, is in order. "I will ask each of you a question. The questions will not be fair, so don't bother to protest. You can answer right away, or ask for multiple choice. Most people opt for the latter because there is no advantage to shouting out the first thing that comes to mind, but it is allowable. If you go the multiple choice route, but still cannot make a reasonable guess as to the answer, you can further narrow your selection by eliminating two choices, asking your Borg buddy for their - plural - opinion, else making a subspace call to an entity of your choice. You can only invoke that particular lifeline once during the entire game, so decide wisely. "This is a single-elimination contest. In order to lose, one of you three must fail to answer their question during the round, with the other two successful. The loser, well, I think we all know what will happen to the loser - your Borg buddy will see to the finale. The two winners - or not-yet-losers, as I like to call them - will advance to the final game. "Are you all ready?" Zyriana wasn't really interested in the answer, but asked it only because it was part of a well-worn patter refined over the course of a century. "Good, then let's begin!" A deep, disembodied voice boomed, "Round One!" Brent and Brad startled, both craning their necks to look around for the source of the words which seemed to originate directly overhead despite the fact that the air above the set was clear to the ceiling of the cargo hold. Several of the drones in the audience were doing likewise, but in a more surreptitious manner. Lokin, however, after turning her head left, then right, had found the source in the form of a single, rather barrel-shaped stage hand holding a complicated loudspeaker device. At least one of the Borg must have also determined who had been responsible, for shortly the man was the center of unwanted attention. With a small wave and a weak grin, the stage hand scuttled behind the even larger bulk of a Klingon lighting manager to hide. "Round One," said Zyriana from her Dias Of Power, "is a warm-up round. If someone is eliminated here, well, I highly doubt the victim will find themselves assigned to any duty which requires anything more complicated than the mental equivalent of breathing." Brent, the first in the line of podiums, smirked. He was obviously both very, very confident and already considering which of many research projects he would pursue first. Zyriana thrust out a hand to point at the first victim for her carefully scripted questions. The maneuver had required years to perfect, down to the last nuance. "Brent, answer me this: what color goes with everything?" The Vulcan hybrid rolled his eyes in disgust. "Black. Everyone with an iota of fashion sense knows that, even Borg and Colors." A sharp nod was the only indication that Brent was correct. "Brad, answer me this: name any of the First Federation captains of the Enterprise starship series." "Um, James T. Kirk?" opinionated Brad carefully. While he was trying to keep his attention on Zyriana, he kept glancing over his shoulder at Captain, as if to assure himself the Borg had not moved. Another nod. "Lokin, answer me this: what Color is associated with libraries and literary research?" Lokin squinched her face into disbelieved puzzlement at the simplicity of the question. Perhaps thinking there was an embedded trick, she responded cautiously, "Provide us, er, me, with options." Zyriana shrugged. "As you wish." A hand was flamboyantly waved at the space separating dais from podium. In response, a holographic board sprung into existence, upon which were hung four potential answers lettered A to D: (A) Sepia; (B) Green; (C) Peach; and (D) Burnt Umber. "Sepia." "Very good. As I said, this is a warm-up round. The rigged questions do not start until Round Two...usually." The hologram smirked. "Round Two!" boomed the disembodied voice. Zyriana acted surprised, "Well, dearie me! Round Two! I guess it is time to take off the kid gloves and put on the brass knuckles. No more Missus Nice Host." The finger stabbed out once more. "Brent! How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" Brent's eyes narrowed. "Clarification: what type of angel and what sort of pin? I know I'm allowed to ask." The hologram sighed in feigned resignation. "Someone who knows the rules. How utterly boring. Maybe I should just give you the answer on a silver platter? No, I couldn't do that. It is a size-9 pin and the angels are of the Astrigian variety." "Bah, that's easy...no need for options. In fact, it is that exact question which was answered by Ultraviolet when I was in residence. In double fact, /I/ was one of primary node operations for that particular conundrum." Zyriana tapped her foot. "Yes, very interesting...not. Do you actually have an answer, pointy-ears?" "The answer is 3.5, since one angel can only get one foot on the pin." Brent waved a hand in bored dismissal. The response must have been right because Zyriana turned to face Brad, the eyes of whom were wide as he contemplated the difficulty of the previous question. "Brad! How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" The ex-Borg gulped. "Options, please?" The holographic board shimmered, presenting the four possible answers: (A) None; (B) 3.2 cords; (C) 18 logs; (D) 0.003 board feet. Brad visibly panicked as he read his multiple guess options. The possibility of consulting one of the three lifelines was obviously forgotten. "Er...um...is it B?" "Nope," replied Zyriana succinctly. "So sorry, bud, but D is what you wanted." There was movement from behind Brad, and suddenly the man was in the grip of his Borg buddy Captain. Invoked bad memories led to a futile struggle that abruptly halted as head was twisted in to a posture of extreme discomfort. The assault stopped at that critical juncture, however, leaving a whimpering Brad in a tight clasp, one small pin- prick from returning to the life he had been only recently rescued from. Zyriana turned her attention to Lokin. "Lokin! Peter Piper ate a peck of pickled peppers. How many peppers did Peter Piper eat?" Before the ex-Sepia could open her mouth, the holographic host sighed, "You are going to ask for the options again, aren't you?" Lokin nodded. As she did so, a new set of potential answers shimmered into existence: (A) Peck; (B) 109; (C) 36 liters; (D) None of the above. The librarian cocked her head as she contemplated her four choices. "Maybe A? No, that would be too easy, and we, er, I donšt think..." "Take it!" yelled Brent from his podium, unable to resist adding his opinion. Lokin craned her head to look at the part-Vulcan. "Don't be an idiot...the whole point of this game is to trick you! Peck!" Upon her dais, Zyriana disdained interrupting the emerging drama. The producers would love it. She did see Brent's Borg start to move, as if to, perhaps, physically detain the contestant. The hologram minutely shook her head; and the drone lapsed back into motionless. Being called an 'idiot' is not the way to make friends, and such was obviously true in the case of Lokin. Nostrils flared as she pointedly looked away from her fervent comrade. "We require a lifeline: remove some of the options." The third and fourth choices vanished, leaving behind "Peck" and "109". "Peck! Peck! Peck!" continued to shout Brent. Lokin opened her mouth, lips pursed to sound the first syllable of her final answer. Then she paused, staring ahead at nothing. Eyes blinked rapidly as whatever momentary fugue state she had dropped into evaporated, likely another symptom of her accidental attempt at self-re-Borgification. Head was shaken. "B. One hundred nine pickled peppers." Brent groaned. "You are..." began Zyriana, drawing out the pause, "...wrong! The correct answer was, indeed, 'Peck'. It seems as if Brad has had a reprieve." At the black draped podium, Brad was abruptly released allowing Captain to return to his former looming position. "Which brings us to our next round." "Round Three!" pronounced the now familiar voice. Zyriana swept her gaze over the three contestants: it was time for someone to fail, and she did not care whom, or at least that was the impression she strove to project to the audience. "Brent! What is a major export of Proteleaus II-a?" * * * * * "Brent! What is a major export of Proteleaus II-a?" regally demanded Zyriana from her dais. The 'Question' theme music was full of strings that sung to the primitive brain of the majority of tri-V addicts, no matter the species, lending an ominous background that kept the viewing audience on the edge of their seats regardless actual question content. The smarmy part-Vulcan, a contestant guaranteed to fall in the category 'love to hate', exploded, "You have got to be kidding! Not even /I/ know where Proteleaus II-a is, much less what sort of crap it exports!" "I never kid," evenly responded Zyriana. "If you cannot answer, well, I think you have enough 'cerebral excellence' in that skull of yours to know what will happen." Brent's face reddened until it looked like he was on the verge of a stroke. Finally he took a long breath and calmly asked, "What are my options?" Everyone's favorite holographic host smiled. Her words dripped false sincerity, "Why, Brent...I thought I heard you tell one of your fellow contestants before the show started that if this particular contest came up that you would have no need for the multiple choice board!" Brent refused to be provoked. "Options." As the choice board did not always show well on the tri-V screen, the options were mirrored at the bottom of the viewing volume. They were accompanied by a toll- free subspace number to call, to allow the fanbase to provide their own guesses as to the actual answer. In this case, the choices were (A) Crap; (B) Fertilizer; (C) Biosolids; (D) All of the above. Eyes narrowed. "You have got to be kidding," was muttered again. Louder: "Clearly the answer is D, as the other ones are all variations upon a theme." A loud buzzer echoed, signifying a wrong answer. Simultaneously the background music shifted to a sub-theme which was more dramatic, more suspenseful. There was a predatory feeling to it, an anticipation which had not been present for Brad during the previous round. Although the Brent's Borg shadow was a head shorter than the Vulcan hybrid, it appeared to have no trouble securing its potential victim. "No fair! You have got to be kid-" Brent's ranting was abruptly cut as the Borg used its 'free' hand to squeeze the former's jaw closed. Zyriana dramatically sighed, "As I said, I never kid. And who said this game was fair? I certainly did not. In fact, I specifically said the opposite. Don't worry, Brent, you could get out of your predicament yet. And, by the way, the answer was A, B, /or/ C. All are major exports of Proteleaus II-a...all I needed was one of them, not all of them." Her only response was a glare. The Finger stabbed towards the next contestant in line. "Brad! What type of Borg vessel are you currently incarcerated upon?" Brad tilted his face to regard his environs. A camera followed his gaze, showing glimpses of a distant ceiling, blinking lights, shelving, Borg drones. "All the cargo holds pretty much look alike, except for Lugger-class," replied Brad. He hastily added, "But I don't discount Lugger-class! Especially not if it is a possible answer. Multiple choice!" On her dais, Zyriana heaved a sigh which indicated boredom at a contestant unwilling to take a chance. After all, even if he was wrong, he obviously could not be assimilated as Brent was already under threat. The subsequently provided set of answers included: (A) Cargo-class; (B) Assault-class; (C) Exploratory-class; and (D) Battle-class. The chanters were starting: "Lifeline! Lifeline! Lifeline!" Obviously realizing that a lifeline was his only option if he wanted to actually answer the question correctly, Brent gulped. "Um, I think I need the lifeline." "And what type?" purred Zyriana. Even the dullest of audience members could see the best route to take to achieve a correct answer. The ex-Borg winced. "I'll ask the host sub-collective." "As you desire." Zyriana smirked a knowing grin as it was obvious that such a lifeline was the /last/ thing her victim desired. Brent turned stiffly towards the drone whom was his 'buddy'. "Okay, you, what type of Borg vessel is this?" Captain tilted his head slightly in response; and Brent screwed his eyes shut. "No! Say it aloud! I don't want to hear it in my head!" The contestant was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The drone, the sub-collective, however, did not relent, did not comply with the demand. This was a game show at its wicked best! Finally Brent stiffly turned to face Zyriana. "He...they say this is an Exploratory- class cube." The ringing bell of a positive answer greeted the response. "You are correct. Sorry, Brent, looks like only one chance left." The final podium was faced by Zyriana. "Lokin! What team is the most recent Ultimate League Jhad-ball champion?" Brent began to thrash once more, making frantic "Mmmm! Mmmm!" sounds. His Borg was not to be diverted, however, although a camera close-up of the renewed struggle did capture, maybe, the slightest of winces as teeth were set to flesh in a very dirty and unintellectually minded attempt of illicit escape. Why did the part-Vulcan worry? How much sports trivia could a librarian, an ex- member of Sepia, be expected to know? This time Lokin did not hem nor haw; and she made no request for the option board. Instead emerged the confident answer of "Bloody Boarhounds of Batelus IV." "You are most definitely correct!" announced Zyriana as a bell rung. "And, with that, I think we will have to bid Brent goodbye. I'm sorry, Brent, but I really do not think you will enjoy your parting gift." In order to impart the coup-de-grace, the Borg holding Brent was forced to shift its hand. In that moment of vocal freedom, as a camera zoomed in to capture the finale, Brent shouted, "No fair! I was supposed to win! This game was supposed to be /my/ game! I am the most qualified to win! I...I...I...." The voice, the accusations, trailed off; and eyes glazed. Knuckles were pulled away, disengaging nanotubules. The view retreated for a fuller shot, showing the part-Vulcan, egotistical to the end, wobbling and finally falling to his knees. The Borg grabbed the nape of Brent's purple jumpsuit, summarily dragging the new sub-collective member away for processing. The music returned to the general 'Questions' theme, now beginning to enter the final, jaunty notes. Zyriana's voice overlaid the scene as it faded, "More fun is on the way with 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?' We will return in a few minutes to learn which of our two final contestants will gain their ultimate dream!" * * * * * Lokin and Brad were led back to the stage from the featureless storage closet where they had been abandoned for the last several hours. In their absence, the entire set had changed. Podiums had been removed, substituted for five sets of risers upon which a total of one hundred upright crates, twenty per step, about the size of coffins were placed. On the front of each otherwise featureless faux wooden box was a number - 1 to 100. As the ex-Sepia librarian peered at the ranks of boxes, Brad suspiciously examined his immediate area. Unlike the two prior games, there was no Borg, and especially no Captain, in evidence to act as escort. Zyriana mounted her dais, arms spread wide to encompass the crates. "Welcome back! The final, deciding game is an old favorite called 'Surprise'. Not used for the last twenty years, it has been resurrected specifically for this Super Ultra-Deluxe Infinite Edition. The premise is simple: in one of those boxes is a Borg, Captain to be exact. One at a time, you will each choose and open a crate. If it is empty, well, that means you have survived to chose another number. If there is a 'surprise' inside, then you are /not/ the winner." "Any questions?" asked Zyriana, although, as always, is was a purely rhetorical exercise. "Very good. So, who will go first?" Lokin lurched forward, propelled from behind. As she caught herself, she glanced at the instigator of her unwanted act, a look of pure contempt coloring her features. Brad took a startled step backward. Then, as suddenly as the unexpected expression had appeared, it vanished, the ex-Sepia librarian's previously established demeanor returning. "I believe we have a volunteer," said Zyriana, overlooking the push. "Make your selection, Lokin." A hand was grandiosely flung towards the risers. "You have 99 chances in 100 to avoid making yourself a new friend." Head bowed, eyes riveted on the largely fog-concealed floor, Lokin shuffled forward. She stopped at the first crate she encountered, Number 10. Head rose to peer at the front of the box, but there was no obvious handle, no button to push. Eyes shifted to look at the holographic host. "How do I...we...?" Zyriana heaved a long sigh. "Dearie, it isn't that hard: intellectuals need not apply. Touch the front of the box and it will open. Don't stand too close, however, else you might be smacked in the nose." Returning attention to her selection, Lokin cautiously set her hand against the faux wood. There was an audible click; and the sound of rusty hinges, an appropriate audio prop for any semi-respectable B-rated vampire movie, echoed across the stage. Slowly, ever so slowly, the front of the box opened...to reveal nothing. Its purpose served, the box vanished in a transporter beam. "Well, I guess that leaves 98 chances out of 99 for Brad to keep his ultimate dream alive. Next!" cried Zyriana. Gulping, the ex-Borg surveyed the risers. He rubbed at his forehead, not to aid pondering, but in discomfort. Eyes slid over Number 47; and the now ever-present whispers gained volume. Firming his resolve, Brad quashed the urgings, went so far as to avert his eyes from the box he /knew/ in his gut held his ultimate threat. "Any millennium now," urged Zyriana from her dais. Toe tapped. "We don't have all day, or night, you know." Brad started forward, passing Lokin and edging along the third riser to confront Number 62. With trepidation that he had chosen wrongly, he brushed his hand against the crate's door, then closed his eyes. The startling squeal of metal on metal sounded again, overloud to Brad's ears. When nothing had reached out to grab him, the ex-Borg slit open his eyes, fully expecting to see a certain Borg regarding him from inside the crate. Nothing. It was empty. Brad heaved a sigh of relief as the box was transported away. "Looks like you have to try again, Lokin," said Zyriana. The librarian moved sideways the meter necessary to Number 11, making no visible effort to guess (or second guess) her selection. A hand lightly touched the front of the crate. Inside was...*drum roll*...the same nothing present in Number 10 and Number 62. Zyriana sighed to herself. This was going to take awhile. * * * * * Opening many crates, and finding nothing, is a rating killer, especially if it drags on for a long time. Therefore, set to the jaunty tune, a montage of Lokin and Brad making their selections and reacting to their lack of immediate assimilation filled the screen. At the bottom of the tri-V picture, questions concerning which of the two remaining contestants would win and which game was the viewer's all-time favorite prompted the audience participation by subspace phone and GalactiNet. It was these interactive touches which contributed to the long-term popularity of "So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?", that and the sense that any ordinary person could compete and have their life-long dream fulfilled. And, of course, the assimilations...everyone loved the assimilations, the more graphic, the better. The montage ended, the final image fading to that of Lokin in front of Number 79. Silence reigned, suspenseful theme music reduced to near inaudibility. A single bass drum beat a slow cadence as the librarian's fingers brushed across the front of the crate, triggering it to open. The delicious sound of hinges in need of an oiling split the quiet; and the camera pulled back to reveal the 'surprise' waiting within. Nothing. The empty crate was removed from the playing field. On her dais, Zyriana shook her head in disappointment. Attention was shifted to the ex-Borg contestant. "Three boxes left, Brad - one holds a destiny I'm sure you'd rather not face. Which one do you chose?" Brad was sweating; and it was obvious that of the three remaining crates - Numbers 26, 47, and 99 - he refused to contemplate Number 47. Fists clenched. From his current position, he would have to pass the dreaded Number 47 to reach Number 26. Therefore, Number 99 was to be his goal. This reasoning was apparent to the audience as Brad pivoted to climb to his selection, brushing past Lokin to reach the fifth riser. Standing in front of Number 99, Brad reached out a trembling hand towards the crate's front, then paused with fingers mere centimeters from the faux wood surface. Puzzlement, then alarm, flashed across his face. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "I heard a transporter-" Hand slapped loudly across the number's facade as Brad stumbled forward, victim of an elbow to the back of his knees by the until-then rather passive librarian. The action had been necessary, either that or pitching over the back of the risers and falling to the floor. Impending threat momentarily forgotten, Brad glared down at his antagonist, eyes narrowed. Perhaps it was a cue from Lokin's mostly expressionless face, perhaps it was a sixth sense that the silence was overly and unnaturally extended, but something prompted Brad to straighten and slowly turn around. "Oh, *beep*." (Despite the laissez-faire attitude of the contemporary galactic media company, there remained some expletives that even the most liberal organization felt prudent to censure. This was one of those times.) Revealed within the crate was a Borg, Captain to be exact. The blue-eyed drone regarded his victim, head cocked slightly, indicating he was either in conversation with his sub-collective or receiving instructions. The exact nature of the communication was unimportant, for upon seeing Brad feel backwards with one foot in preparation for a blind retreat, Captain stepped forward, whole hand reaching for the ex-Borg. Or at least tried to. The simple act of movement flexed armored shoulders, ensuring the drone was mere millimeters too wide to pass through the crate's opening. Captain came to an abrupt halt, rocking the box as he caught upon the edges. Leaning backwards slightly, he attempted the maneuver again, with the same result. Head twisted awkwardly to regard his shoulders, the reason of his impediment. Taking advantage of the stay in his imminent assimilation, Brad turned in preparation to flee. Just as a racing shuttle fan waits in morbid readiness for the a vessel to lose control and slam into its opponents, so did the fan base of "So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?" secretly (or not so secretly) hope for that one contestant to attempt futile escape. Pursuit was fun; and even more so when the doomed contestant attempted to plead with an unmoved Zyriana even as destiny approached on armored feet. Unfortunately, Brad did not get far, prevented from taking more than a single step as Lokin grasped his ankles, holding him in place. Eyes widened as Brad looked down, appraising his predicament. "You!" he blurted as he tried to kick, to wiggle, but Lokin must have weighed more or been stronger than her frame suggested, for Brad remained immobile. It was a good scene, one made better as the screen split to show Captain turning to edge himself sideways out of the crate. The action by the inoffensive Lokin was not entirely without precedence, many contestants more than willing in the end to sacrifice a fellow game show comrade if it meant that they would gain their own selfish desire. As Captain cleared himself from the box and began to advance along the riser, the camera view pulled back to show the entire scene once more. The artificial arm reached forward, contacting Brad's shoulder; and as it did so, background music rose to a crescendo of anticipation. Lokin released her ankle grip, covertly edging away. However, it was not this peripheral action which held the attention of the camera, of the audience, but Brad as he faced his imminent future. Borg versus ex-Borg, there was no contest. Augmented muscles dragged the struggling victim towards Captain, free hand wrenching aside the head to bare the neck. However, unlike the previous game where Brad had been held in the Borg's grip, this time there was no hesitation, no reprieve as fist thrust slow-motion towards the target, knuckles leading. Total silence. The camera zoomed in upon Borg and soon-to-return-to-Borg, filling the tri-V volume with their heads. Words, nearly inaudible, whispered a chilling salutation: "Welcome back to us." Assimilation was triggered. "Rigged. The...game...all of it...it was...rig...ged...." Brad's voice trailed off as nanoprobes infiltrated his system. Eyes glazed. The camera view redirected to a wider angle just in time to see Captain jerk his arm away, disengaging nanotubules. Brad slumped. Triumphant music! Horns and drums and the clash of a cymbal! The view cut to the dais, upon which stood Zyriana and the newest "So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?" winner. Multicolored balloons cascaded in the background as rust brown and yellow strobes lit the knee-high fog. Zyriana smiled condescendingly, then winked with a knowing air. "Rigged? That is all our /loser/ has to say? Weak! After all, who can forget the memorable utterance of Thog just prior to his 'welcome' into Teal during the final episode concluding season 78?" Inserted laughter cued the tri-V viewer to recall one of the acknowledged classic moments in the history of the game. With a shake of her head, Zyriana changed tack. Lokin's limp hand was grasped. "Congratulations, Lokin!" Lokin's face did not show happiness, nor any definable expression unless a blank stare counted. However, shock was a too-common post-contest occurrence, the winner finally realizing how close he or she had come to feeling the prick of nanotubules themselves. "All your dreams, all your desires are soon to come true! It is time to celebrate! Thank you for playing 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?'; and thank all you viewers out there for watching!" The closing music swelled to prominence, drowning out words said by Zyriana as she leaned forward to converse with Lokin. The scene pulled back, showing more and more of the set, and at the same time darkening until all had faded to black. So concluded another successful episode of "So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?" * * * * * "That's a wrap," called the anonymous voice of the camera manager from the side of the stage. Four stage crew, picked via the short straw method, were feverishly packing up important equipment and props; and transporters were working overtime moving crated material to the mothership. Zyriana wiped the fake smile from her face as she abruptly let go of Lokin's hand. The hologram turned to shout at the remaining staff, "Could someone get these damn balloons out of my way? And shut off the fog! And see about turning up lighting to whatever goes for normal around here!" With hands on her hips, Zyriana blatantly ignored the winner. Oddly, Lokin was not protesting the treatment. The hologram's face twisted into a frown as she watched what she considered a too-slow pace of packing. When the expected tread of heavy footsteps sounded behind her, Zyriana turned. Captain strode across the dais. Lokin, despite the recent trauma of the show, did not acknowledge the presence; and nor did she flinch as the Borg stopped beside her, one hand raising to be placed on her shoulder. The only response was for the librarian to slightly cock her head. The hand was removed. "We request our release from this temporary assignment," demanded Lokin to her consensus monitor and facilitator. "We need to scrub this tanning cream from our epidermis before we develop a rash. We also need to have our exterior assemblies and other specialty hardware reinstalled so that we can resume our normal duties of drone maintenance." Captain angled his head just sufficiently to view Lokin from his single blue eye. "You are released, 43 of 133." 43 of 133 - perhaps Lokin was even her true pre-assimilated name - summarily vanished in a transporter beam. Attention was shifted to Zyriana. Whole hand was raised, palm upward. "Return to us the key. Now." Zyriana knew that there had been no need for the prior exchange to have been made aloud. However, she also knew that given its more than eight millennia of experience, the Borg Collective was perfectly capable of theatrics when it considered them necessary. "Not so fast, Mr. Captain Borg," the entertainment hologram said as she received an update on packing progress, "there is one thing I've wanted to know since management stuck me with this stupid assignment: what is with an electronic ignition key? Admittedly, it is a convenient because in this case I seriously doubt that the standard contract would have worked. However, this type of blackmail seems a bit...primitive. Now, before management told me about it, I had no clue it existed; and I still have no idea where they acquired this juicy nugget of information." The Borg, and Colored offshoots, retained a welter of legacy technology due to the information glut inherent in the process of wholescale assimilation and adaptation. Many of the legacies were harmless, technological appendices which had never been purged because of a lack of impetus to do so. Occasionally one, like the electronic ignition key, required by any Borg (or Colored) vessel which wished to use its propulsion, came back to haunt the Collective. Captain did not bother to reply. Seeing that the key was not immediately forthcoming, he lowered his hand. After several long seconds, he asked, "What are we supposed to do with the three we assimilated? The individual previously designated 'Brad' is Borg, and therefore rightfully belongs to us, but the other two have not been part of this Collective." Zyriana shrugged noncommittally. "Normally the Color eventually returns them, but I was pretty sure in the beginning such would not be an option here. At any rate, it is not my problem because the 'So You Don't Want To Be A Borg?' program isn't in the de- assimilation business; and they all signed a consent form beforehand, anyway. You can deal with them." Silence reigned as the last of the program's personnel and non-expendable equipment and props were returned to the mothership. The link Zyriana maintained with the ship's computer informed her that the captain had engines ready to go: it was time to depart. Although she disliked leaving behind holoemitters due to their expense, a century of experience had taught her that even the most predictable and respectable Color did not like to be pushed. She assumed that such was true in spades for the Borg. Abandoned holoprojectors, therefore, were a cost of business. "Nice doing this gig with you, but I truly hope we never return; and if management gets such an idiotic idea as this one stuck in their pea-brains, I'm going to tell them to take a flying leap or suggest /they/ put /their/ butts on the line for the sake of ratings," opinionated Zyriana as her matrix began to destabilize. Just before the last of her program was transferred back to the mothership, she added, "Here's your key." A small object fell from the now-vanished holomatrix, landing on the dais and bouncing to a stop with a muffled metallic ring. Captain bent over to pick up the object. The 'key' was a flattened ovoid into which was embedded a silicon-based chip. It was an outdated technology, but without it, no Borg (or Colored) ship could go anywhere. Captain lifted the key to his artificial eye to critically examine it, searching for obvious damage. Meanwhile, exterior sensors observed Zyriana's small, yet sophisticated, ship rev engines and vanish into hypertranswarp in the equivalent of peeling out. {Don't waste energy,} Captain berated Weapons as neuruptors stabbed out, hitting nothing, {and, no, we will not pursue: we have larger issues to consider than chasing one insignificant ship.} Within Bulk Cargo Hold #8, one, then two, then a dozen engineering drones materialized. They spread out and began the task of dismantling and otherwise cleaning up the mess left behind by the game show. Delta was deploring the disorder, which ranged from holoprojectors to gum wrappers, most of which would be sent to replicator replication. Some items were salvageable in and of themselves and would be added to inventory, but most was junk; and then there was repainting which needed to be accomplished. A drone appeared next to Captain. Captain pivoted to face the newly arrived engineering drone. As 10 of 230 held out his hand, the key was dropped into it. "Hide it again," ordered Captain. "Do /not/ put it into a fake granite rock which is to be subsequently magnetized to the hull; and nor are welcome mats to be considered. Conceal it someplace secure, this time." Instructions acknowledged, 10 of 230 vanished. Captain sighed, then turned to observe the clean-up. This was the last time Cube #347 would be blackmailed, maybe. Captain made a note to lodge a protest (yet again) about the blackmail potential of the key. Unfortunately, first there was the little matter of the cube's rogue status and the quantum parasite infecting the Borg Collective. Priorities, priorities, priorities.